Page 88 of A Very Daddy Christmas

28

Waylan

“It’s not like her to ignore our calls and texts like this,” Sebastian says.

He grips the wheel tight, his knuckles turning white as he drives across town. We haven’t been able to reach Cora for a few hours, and we had to get a last-minute babysitter through a local agency for Dario while we try to figure out what’s going on.

“Eva isn’t picking up either,” Riggs mutters. “I’m going to text her instead and see if she’ll respond that way.”

His furrowed brow tells me we’re all on the same page. Anxious and restless and increasingly certain that something must’ve happened for Cora to go radio silent.

“Should we call the sheriff?” I ask from the backseat, my fingers already swiping through my contacts for Foreman’s personal number.

“Foreman is fucking useless,” Sebastian says through gritted teeth. “I’d rather figure out what’s going on before we get the cops involved.”

Yet as the SUV pulls up outside the Levine Bakery, it quickly becomes evident that we may, in fact, need all the law enforcement assistance we can get. The windows are smashed out, the walls defaced with graffiti slurs. My throat tightens as I read the malicious words and realize Cora must’ve read them, too.

It would explain the radio silence. These same words bode terrible repercussions for us as well. Surely, our lawyers can dismiss everything as filthy rumors, but we’ll still need to reach out to the Justice Department and see if we can get a sympathetic judge appointed to Dario’s custody case. I can’t risk losing the kid, not after everything he’s already suffered.

“Fucking hell,” Sebastian groans, taking in the damage. “They took it too far this time.”

“It’s spite. St. James and Hamilton are clearly two of the most spiteful sons of bitches we’ve ever come across.”

Riggs points a finger to the front door. “There’s Eva.”

She’s watching two handymen as they climb up on ladders inside the bakery to lift a huge plywood board against one of the broken windows.

“Eva!” I call out as the three of us exit the SUV. “What happened?”

“Take a wild guess,” she scoffs. The glare she gives me stops me in my tracks, mere feet away from her, as I try to understand if the harsh tone is deliberately directed at us or just a side effect of understandable anger.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Do I look like I’m fucking okay to you?”

“Whoa, Eva, hold on, we’re trying to help,” Sebastian cordially chimes in, but her expression wipes the smile from his face. “Seriously, what’s going on here?”

Eva takes a deep breath and closes her eyes for a moment. Based solely on my impression, I’d say she’s got half a mind to throw one of those plywood boards right at us. She’s angry. Seething, even. It worries me.

“Eva, please, talk to us,” I say. “We can’t get a hold of Cora and now seeing this…” I add, pointing at the window. “Please.”

“You don’t know?” she says, wide-eyed as she looks at me.

“Know what?”

“Orson St. James made his final play for the building, and he won.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “The escrow went through. Our lawyers are planning to meet after the new year to draw up the final paperwork.”

“You didn’t know about the morality clause in that wretched tenancy agreement, then. Neither did we,” she replies.

“Morality clause?” Sebastian asks.

Eva takes out a handful of photographs from the inside pocket of her green tweed winter coat and hands them over. As soon as I see them, my blood runs cold.

“Fuck,” I hear myself mumble.

“Oh, there was plenty of that, I’m told,” Eva scoffs. “I feel that what you do in the privacy of your own bedroom is your business and yours alone. Your sexual preferences may differ from mine, and I don’t appreciate you dragging Cora into this. However,she’s an adult, responsible for her choices and the consequences they may bring.”

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